A Bitter Draught
by AGirloftheSouth
Summary: Captured as revenge for Moriarty's death, Sherlock must search for John, who doesn't know that he is missing. Set soon after Reichenbach.
1. Chapter 1

A/N- Thanks as always to ScopesMonkey. She's an amazing cheerleader, friend, and beta. Thanks.

Warning – This story will contain some very dark imagery, drug use, and descriptions of mild torture. It wills also more than likely hint at a sexual relationship between two male characters. Consider yourself warned.

Disclaimer – I do not own.

* * *

A Bitter Draught

_Hatred is blind; rage carries you away; and he who pours out vengeance runs the risk of tasting a bitter draught._  
― Alexandre Dumas, _The Count of Monte Cristo_

* * *

It was the soft ping of rain that he focused on in the moment before he opened his eyes. He lay still while his eyes made a full circle of the area that was visible to him. There was small ray of weak daylight streaming in from a high window across from him, but the rest of the room was mostly dark. His imagination was creating an odd series of men and monsters watching him from the shadows, making his heart rate jump before he dismissed the panic by closing his eyes.

"Ridiculous," he said aloud, his voice echoing in the empty area. He took several steadying breaths, calming himself before trying to shift onto his back. It was a mistake.

"Oh god," he mumbled, his head throbbing. The room spun behind his closed lids and he managed to turn his head just before he got sick. His throat burned as the retching filled his ears as his stomach seized, trying to reject contents that it did not contain. His body shook with the violence of it before he managed to open his eyes and focus on the small circle of light on the floor. The unmoving spot of illumination gave his mind the stability it needed, and after a moment his stomach calmed.

The rain increased, the drops pounding against metal and glass. He tried to push the sounds away; listening to them was making his stomach churn again. His eyes stayed locked on the small circle of light as he shifted again to settle on his back. The floor was damp and cold beneath him, pressing into his skin through his shirt and his jacket. It was uncomfortable, but not enough to make him move. He looked at the light for a long time, stabilizing himself until his eyes finally drifted closed.

* * *

It didn't feel like a long time had passed as he opened his eyes. Daylight was still streaming in through the far off window, the small, perfect circle was still on the floor. The rain had stopped, and the smell of damp and ozone came slowly to him.

He wondered if he'd slept again. Although not warm, the temperature of the floor was no longer uncomfortable. He turned his head slightly, carefully. He didn't want to get sick again. When the nausea didn't come, he slowly managed to push himself into sitting position. His head ached as he stilled himself and he took several gasping breaths, the exertion momentarily overpowering him. He had vague sense of a wall close to him and shifted his body slowly so he was sitting against it. His head was throbbing even more, the pressure pushing from the inside out, but as he sat in the darkness, he silently confirmed that he was done vomiting.

He let his eyes trail up the single ray of light and focused on the window high above him. He tried to assess the distance, but the contrast of the darkness and the light distorted the reality. He'd have believed it was ten stories or simply a few yards. He squinted, focusing on the glass. It was broken, sharp shards jutting out from all four corners.

He took a deep breath and let his eyes wander around the rest of the space. There wasn't much to make out, but it seemed like some sort of warehouse. The single window, smell of wood, and sounds of metal didn't seem to fit with anything else he could imagine. He focused on the window again, seeing light but not sky beyond. There were also momentary flashes, small movements his mind couldn't reconcile.

"It's dripping," he said into the silence, recognizing a drop of moisture as it fell off one of the shards and into the warehouse. He heard the soft drop of moisture on moisture this time, the sound barely discernible in the deafening silence.

He waited until he heard it again, setting the pattern in his head. He'd know when to expect it without having to see the drop fall. He smiled, his jaw stiff and sore with the movement. The sound was a constant, something connecting him to the world outside that window.

He found comfort in that, but was uncertain as to why.

He reached out with his left hand, aware that even though it didn't hurt there was something wrong with his right side. His fingers brushed then closed over something hard and cold - metal he thought - and tried to lift the object. It wouldn't budge, and he lacked the strength to strain himself. He loosened his grip, but didn't let go and, leaned his head gently back against the wall.

_I wonder where I am? _he thought vaguely, closing his eyes and slipping into sleep again.

* * *

He started as something ran across his hand, suddenly awake as his whole body flinched away from the sensation. He gasped and slammed his head against something hard. A fresh wave of nausea swept over him and he brought his eyes up to focus on the circle of light. It was gone, leaving him in darkness. He felt a rush of panic before the sound of small scurrying feet grounded him in the moment.

"Rats," he said, and, as if on cue, the quiet chirping noises of rodents reached his ears. "Bloody rats."

He straightened again, his eyes following the absent stream of light up to the window far about him. He could make out the slight distortion of color between the pitch black and the mostly-black that made up the outline of the window. There were no stars visible, nor the moon for that matter, but he found comfort in the fact that the window was still there.

He focused on the scurrying again, of tiny feet moving at a frantic pace around the large space, overlapping before moving in different directions. It bled into the background, almost soothing him back to sleep before the loud crash startled him. The rats had wrecked something. It sounded like a combination of wood and metal slamming to the floor, echoing through his aching head as bile filled the back of his throat.

_Water would help_, he thought, and the thought stirred a need buried in his belly. He was thirsty, unbelievably so, parched and desperate. He groped blindly for a moment, wondering if he had something, but managed to calm himself before the panic rose.

He needed to get out of here.

"Up," he said, forcing a tone of determination into the command. His body wasn't impressed. When it didn't immediately respond, he took a deep breath and planted his palms into the concrete by his thighs. It was cold as he forced his weight onto his muscles and pulled himself up. With both feet flat on the floor the room spun and he steadied himself against the wall. It was uneven and rough to the touch. He felt little peaks and grooves digging into his palm and frowned in confusion before coming up with bricks. The wall must be made of brick. He curled his fingertips against the surface, as if to confirm, before he tried to stand straight again.

He took a steadying breath and shuffled forward in a wobbly half step. When he didn't trip over anything he took another cautious step.

He could see no obstacles in front of him, but kept his pace slow. The small steps also made the darkness more bearable, and somehow less imposing. They kept him calm. He kept his left hand against the wall, his fingers brushing over the bricks with each step. His brain noticed every slight change, the texture, the temperature, the moisture. It varied, but never altered enough to indicate a door or other type of exit. It was just brick, a continuous wall of bricks.

He didn't count his steps, but was aware that he'd actually walked quite distance, when he reached a corner. His fingers traced over the different surfaces, brick meeting concrete. The new wall was smooth and even cooler to the touch. He took a cautious step in the new direction and kicked something hard and heavy. It moved at the contact, crashing against the floor.

_Wood, _he thought as the room went silent again except for the renewed scurrying. He cringed at the sounds of the rats, the thought of them making his stomach clench again. It sounded like there were hundreds of them. He could almost feel the thousands of beady red eyes staring at him, watching him, evaluating whether this larger two legged creature was a danger to them or to be ignored. It was disgusting and terrifying at the same time.

He reached out with his foot, encountering nothing with his next step. He was relieved and managed to take another. It was ridiculous, he knew, but everything felt different on this wall. It was almost like his gut didn't trust the smooth, perfect surface. It felt like a different room, a different space. He felt lost and he tried not to be terrified.

He looked upwards again, almost panicking in the moment before he spotted the slight alteration of color that indicated his window. There were still no stars, but he imagined that he could make out a faint sliver of the moon, visible in the bottom corner. If he continued, he might be able to see it properly.

And, after all, there had to be a door.


	2. Chapter 2

The door was metal when he finally found it, cool against his fingers as he dragged them over the surface, feeling for the knob. A surge of relief spread through his chest when he finally closed around it. He pulled, panicking for a moment when the door didn't move, but when he pushed instead, the hinges creaked the smell of night time and fresh air filled the quiet space. The door stuck and he used his body to leverage it open a fraction more. It was a tight fit, but he squeezed himself through, stumbling onto the pavement and grabbing onto a newspaper box.

The empty box rattled and the rusted front door dropped open. A collection of plastic cups clattered to the ground and the stench of rotten food hit him. His stomach churned at the odor, the desperation of hunger mixing with his sense of disgust.

He leaned forward, coughing as the cold air filled his lungs. He gagged, his chest tightening, but he managed little more than bile, which he spit it onto the street. He gasped in a stabilizing breath and pushed off the box, stumbling a few steps into the street and away from the stench.

He looked to his left. The light closest to him - the one he'd almost gotten sick under - was out, but all the other lights in that direction shone onto the street. He saw nothing but warehouses on either side. They were uniform mixes of brick and metal, and appeared to stretch into the distance forever.

It was surreal.

He turned to see that the lights in the other direction were sporadically lit. Approximately every other one until the road turned sharply. There were lights in the distance though, a glow in the sky that indicated a group of high powered lights. He focused on the soft glow and felt drawn that way. He took one shaky step and then another.

It had been easier in the warehouse when he'd had a wall to hold onto, but outside it was different. His legs felt unsteady and awkward. They appeared strong secure, but he felt out of sync with them. He looked down at shoes he didn't recognize on his feet. He frowned, trying to remember when he'd got them, but couldn't. He also couldn't remember the ones he should be wearing.

_It's the hunger_, he thought, his stomach growling in that instant. Everything was off-kilter because of the hunger.

He first heard the voice as he followed the bend in the road. It was singing a song he didn't recognize in what he thought was an Irish accent.

He closed his eyes, trying to finalize the direction, but the world started to spin and he stumbled. He regained his balance and headed down an alley, towards the sounds of the Irish voice.

He smelled the fire before he saw anything, a faint wisp of smoke moving through the cool night air. He moved towards it, his stomach growling at the hint of something cooking. He felt weak with the need for food.

The voice grew louder as the smoke got stronger, filling the air with a haze as he stumbled around a corner, tripping over a curb.

"Oi," came the voice and he looked for it, desperate for whatever was cooking over the bright orange fire he saw in front of him.

"I'm sor–" he started, stopping his movements as a man stepped in front of him. The odor hit him first, make his grumbling stomach seize on itself. He felt bile rising in his throat again, and took a step backwards.

"This is my corner, mate." He took another step back, nodding his head at the declaration. The homeless man was larger than him, wearing an oversized brown coat. His scraggly beard was full of trash and food and as the Irishman raised his arms over his head, the smell became so bad it almost knocked him over.

"I'm sorry," he said again taking another step back. "I just– I'm hungry."

"We all are, but you won't be stealing my dinner. Get off my corner."

He took another step backwards as fist came swinging down. It missed him, but barely.

"Hey. Hey," came another voice, the smell getting worse as they were joined by a third, younger man. "Hold off, Patty," the younger man said and the Irishman backed off. "No one's gonna to steal your dinner."

"No they ain't, Matthew, no they ain't," the Irishman said, jabbing his finger around wildly.

"Come with me," Matthew said, leading them away from the Irishman. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

He just shook his head trying to stave of the mixed feeling of disgust and starvation.

"You don't belong out here that is for sure. You hungry?"

There was a noticeable growl of his stomach and Matthew smiled, pulling a bag of crisps out of one of the many pockets in his dark green jacket. He ripped the bag open and swallowed half of them in one gulp, hardly bothering to chew.

"Slow down there, that might be your only food for a few days." It didn't matter. He couldn't slow down. He reached in again, grabbing the rest of the bag and tipping the crumbs in. His stomach was rumbling violently, desperate for the little bit of nutrition.

"I'm sure I know you from somewhere," Matthew insisted. "Did you live on the streets before? I'm from Surrey originally – do you live there?" He shook his head, but 'no' didn't feel right. Surrey was a place, he'd heard of it. He had a picture in his head of what it looked like, but it felt wrong too. Like a picture he'd created in his mind after reading about it. Surely he'd remember if he'd travelled there.

"I don't think so," he said, his voice unfamiliar to his own ears. "I'm not sure."

Matthew stopped walking and he saw a collection of boxes and blankets piled on a small patch of grass next to an abandoned building. This seemed to be where Matthew was leading them.

"Well," Matthew started, "what's your name then? I'm Matthew – always Matthew, never Matt."

He nodded. He'd known someone named Matthew a long time ago, back when he lived in the place with the sand.

Why had he lived there?

When?

"Um," he said, meeting Matthew's dark eyes. "I don't know what my name is."

It was the last thing he thought before the sounds of running and screaming drew his attention. He was too late though, he hadn't even turned his head all the way around before the Irish fist came into contact with his temple.

* * *

"Ouch," she murmured, cringing. "That's going to leave a bruise." She paused the image and tried to enlarge it. She wanted to see the point of contact, the fist possibly shattering the tender bones along the side of his face.

The image went blurry and she dropped the remote back onto her desk.

"Why can't the CCTV cameras be higher quality?" She was speaking to no one, but wasn't entirely surprised when a small chuckle came from behind her. She didn't turn around. It was just Raoul bringing the information he'd gathered from New Scotland Yard.

He walked around the desk and she watched him glance at her boots propped up on the surface. She'd paid almost $2000 for the shiny red leather knee high boots in New York three weeks previous and she was almost in love with them. The certainly grabbed the attention of most of the men she interacted with

"What did you find?" she asked, drawing his eyes back up to her face.

"Nothing much," he answered truthfully, handing the file over to her. She glanced through it quickly before dropping it into the bin, keeping her disappointment buried. She'd expected something by now – some interaction, some opposing player. She was getting none of that.

She was getting bored.

She sighed, leaning her head back into the soft leather of her desk chair.

"Can you tell me, Raoul," she began, picking up the remote control and rewinding the video. She hit play and the large Irish man quickly started up the street again, pulling his fist back, "why someone as beloved as Doctor John Watson hasn't been reported missing yet?"

She froze the black and white image as the short, lighter haired man hit the ground, his head almost bouncing off the concrete. She frowned. She'd picked the jumper out for him specifically, had Harrod's deliver it to her flat. The bright cobalt blue had made his stupidly confused eyes shine.

Two weeks she'd had him. Two weeks she'd studied his coloring and features so that she was sure to make the perfect selections. Two weeks she'd worked at it – and all for naught. Surely the fall to the ground would rip the beautiful silk she'd selected. If not, the blood that came from the wound would ruin it. Not to mention all the horrors it might have met in the warehouse. It had been hardly an ideal dumping ground.

She'd accepted that it was necessary though. He had to be on the street and very far from home. She had to make it difficult to find John Watson, or Sherlock Holmes wouldn't even bother to look.


	3. Chapter 3

Mrs. Hudson was humming as she climbed the stairs. She didn't know the tune, but it had been coming from Mrs. Turner's married ones' flat when she'd had tea there yesterday. It was probably by one of those ridiculous American girls who wore snakes around their necks or had the pointy bras. She made a mental note to ask her nephew next time she saw him, he was good at keeping her current at certain things.

Especially now that Sherlock was gone.

Her hip ached as she entered the living room, and she moved gingerly trying to stretch out some of the pain. It was going to rain later - despite what the young woman who did the weather had said. It had been bothering her more than usual since she'd had to chase Carlos out of Speedy's after finding those pictures on his mobile. It was stupid to move so quickly. She knew better but she'd never been very good at controlling her temper. If John had been home he would have spoken to Carlos for her, and he would have told her to rest.

Her doctor was encouraging her to consider replacement, but it was so intimidating. She wished John would come home so she could get his advice. She wished he'd come home for a lot of reasons.

She kept a small collection of cleaning supplies stored under the sink. The flat didn't need to be cleaned twice a week - especially as it was currently vacant - but she'd made a sort of habit out of it. When Sherlock had been alive she'd cleaned frequently because if she hadn't, any random collection of corrosive materials would be left about. John by himself had been tidier, but she'd still come up to do the light dusting and to water the plant.

She'd bought the philodendron at Portobello Market one weekend because the man who'd sold it to her insisted that plants could be therapeutic as companions to the lonely. She'd thought of John instantly, that he might benefit from having something to take care of. He was a doctor, a caretaker. He'd been considering going back to work at the surgery, and she'd hoped that plant would help encourage that. She understood that the work held little appeal, and after the final fall out with Sarah it was hardly a pleasant place, but it was certainly better than sitting around the flat all the time in mourning. There were other surgeries he could work at. They'd be lucky to have him.

John had smiled when she'd held given him the plant, as close to a real smile as she'd seen in a while. It didn't quite reach his eyes though, and she'd felt a wave of sadness and a momentary feeling of panic that he might never really smile again. She didn't know what was worse: losing one of her boys or watching the remaining one suffer so much.

He'd dutifully asked her questions about the plant. How much water did it need? How much sun? He was grateful for the gift and her concern. But he didn't really like it. She'd seen that immediately. He'd accepted it and he'd cared for it simply because it had been a gift from her. It warmed her heart and caused her pain at the same time.

It was two weeks after she'd delivered the plant when he told her, over tea, that he was going away. A trip to clear his head (and his heart, she'd added mentally) and find some peace. She'd been happy for him, accepted a month's rent, and agreed to watch the flat.

John had warned her that he might be out of touch for a while, claiming he needed to be alone. She understood that, and it was the only reason that she hadn't called the police.

Mrs. Hudson stopped humming and let out a sigh as she gently trailed the water over the base of the green leaves. Thirty-one long lonely days with absolutely no word. It was inconsiderate, rude, and out of character for John. She'd expected an email at least.

"Sherlock would know what to do," she said to the skull as she quickly brushed her fingers over the bony cranium. "He'd have known where John's got off to."

She sighed again, pushing away the twinge of concern. It did no good to worry, and John was a smart man. He'd be fine.

Mrs. Hudson moved back into the kitchen and sat the watering can on the counter. She glanced over the small supply of cleaners and rags, deciding to put off the hoovering until next time when a knock on the door startled her.

She gasped, jumping backwards and knocking a rag onto the floor. "Oh!" she exclaimed just as the knob turned and the door quietly pushed open.

"John?" came a soft voice, and Mrs. Hudson moved towards the door.

"Harry?" Mrs. Hudson asked as blue eyes that were so like John's met hers.

"Mrs. Hudson," Harry replied, offering a soft smile as she stepped through the threshold and into the living room. "I was just-" the younger woman looked around awkwardly, as if suddenly caught red handed. "I just haven't heard from John. I wanted to check up on him."

_Took long enough, _Mrs. Hudson thought, but didn't voice it. It was easy for her to side with John; John was one of her boys. But she'd also lived long enough to know that no conflict was one-sided. Harry certainly had her faults, and Mrs. Hudson could see some of them etched into the young woman's face. She lived life fast and hard, and it was apparent in the lines and creases that made her look older than her older brother, even with all the horrors John had seen. But Harry certainly tried with John and always had. It was John who often dismissed his sister without care or concern. Most people would long ago have given up, but the young solicitor certainly was persistent. And Mrs. Hudson admired her for that.

"Come in, dear," she said, moving out of the way so Harry could fully join her in the room. Mrs. Hudson waved Harry toward the couch and sat down in what had once been Sherlock's chair.

"I haven't heard from him since he went on his sabbatical. I've been worried, but…"

"He went to Cornwall," Harry said. "My grandparents owned a house on the coast; we'd go there in the summer when we were kids. It's still owned by one of our cousins – we aren't close, but he's always offered it to us."

This was news to Mrs. Hudson and she felt momentarily disoriented over the fact that John's estranged sister knew more about it than she did.

"John called me a week before he left, wanted Mark's – that's our cousin – phone number. Said he was going to go for a few weeks, clear his head and such. I thought it was a good idea. I mean, I'm sure you noticed, but since Sherlock died– well, he hasn't been the same. It wasn't even this bad when he first came back…" She trailed off and Mrs. Hudson could see the haunted look in her eyes. Mrs. Hudson had seen hints of trauma in John, but never the terror Harry must have witnessed when John first came home from Afghanistan.

"That's more than he told me," she said. "I just knew he was going away. He asked me to care for his plant."

"I checked on him a bit the first week or so – ordered from some of the local restaurants and had food delivered to him, that sort of thing. I'd call and talked about maybe going down for a weekend. He wanted me to come. I think being away was really helping him."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, encouraging her to continue.

"Then one day I ordered pizza from the place Gran would take us. They called me back and said they couldn't deliver it because no one was home. I thought good for him, getting out, doing things. I tried to call and got nothing, but he rarely takes my calls. But then there was another undelivered meal and some unreturned emails that worried me enough to go down there." She shrugged her shoulders and looked towards the window. "He was gone. Looks like he'd packed up and left. I assumed back to London. I tried a few more phone calls and emails and when I got nothing more I came here." She sighed, looking suddenly deflated. "I suppose he isn't here."

"No," Mrs. Hudson answered, her concern growing. When Harry looked back at her she could see the same feelings reflected back at her.

"Is his gun still here?"

* * *

Rain beat down on Lestrade as he stood on the curb outside of 221b and tried to recall the last time he'd been here. After the funeral, he thought. Mrs. Hudson had hosted the small get together, but the food and wine had done absolutely nothing to alleviate the sadness of the day.

If he was being honest with himself, he missed the detective more than he'd ever thought possible. Sherlock had been a good detective, a good ally, and a good friend. The loss had been painful and Lestrade had avoided John as a result. They'd probably avoided each other, but as he stood on the stoop reaching up to ring the bell, he felt all of the guilt.

Maybe if he'd stayed in contact with John he wouldn't be here now, in this situation.

_Missing, we think. _Those had been Mrs. Hudson's words. _We hope _had been left unsaid, but after all his years as a detective he'd heard them. The concern had been apparent in her voice, and Lestrade knew exactly what he'd find when she answered the door.

She appeared almost immediately, holding the door open and wringing her hands as she moved aside to let him in. She managed a kind smile though and he kissed her cheek. It was certainly good to see her again.

"How are you?" Lestrade asked.

"Fine," Mrs. Hudson answered, although he could see the slight hint in her step of her aching hip. "You? How is your wife?"

"Good, both of us," he answered, following her into her flat. There was another woman sitting curled up with a mug in her hand. He knew from Mrs. Hudson's phone call who she was and even if she hadn't been mentioned, Lestrade could have easily guessed. The resemblance was remarkable. He'd heard John talk about his sister, but she hardly seemed like the hard partying, constantly drunk woman he'd imagined. She looked like the female version of John – only smaller and with darker hair.

Lestrade settled in the chair and took the tea cup offered to him.

"All right," he said. "Let's start at the beginning. When was the last time anyone saw him?"


	4. Chapter 4

The smell of the vegetable curry drifted through the torn blanket hanging over the window. Sherlock's stomach growled and he tried to recall the last time he had eaten, but couldn't immediately remember. Boupha would be able to give him a definite answer, but she wasn't due back for several hours. He had sent her into Phnom Pehn to get new cables for the computers. He knew if he set up residence closer to the city he would have less difficulty with internet access, but he'd also risk being seen. Jim's network was vast, and he was not willing to risk John, Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade until he was certain it had been extinguished.

Sherlock sat back in his chair, feeling the muscles of his lower back protest as he stretched them. He'd been working too long, sitting over his keyboard for days. John would have chastised him if he'd been there. Chastised him, taken the laptop away and shoved a plate of food in his face. Sherlock smiled at the memory and looked around his small room.

It was hard to imagine John in this place. No running water, intermittent electricity, nothing more than a collection of straw and blankets tucked into the corner to sleep on. Despite all of his time in the deserts of Afghanistan, John had always shown himself to be a man who needed the amenities. Sherlock didn't think he'd do well in rural Cambodia. Even Sherlock was beginning to tire of his surroundings. He missed London – the activity, the people, and the cases.

He missed his friends. He missed John.

He was certain he was close to closing in on the last piece of the puzzle, but it kept eluding him. There was somebody he couldn't find – someone who'd worked closely with Jim, who had helped orchestrate all the final actions in the Reichenbach debacle. Whoever he was, he kept slipping past all of Sherlock's traps. And until Sherlock found him, it wasn't really over.

He opened his emails, not surprised to see one from Mycroft. His brother was sending him flight manifolds and the bookings from several Hawaiian hotels. Moriarty had taken a trip there not long after the incidence with The Woman – presumably to meet with someone.

With a loud buzz and a quiet bang the electricity went out. He sighed and stood. The email was going to have to wait. The power outage was typical given the time of day; his building often lost power when the trains did their regular supply run into the city. It would be twenty minutes or more before he would be able to do anything else. The vegetable curry was suddenly very appealing.

* * *

Mycroft eyed the bar across the cool, quiet room. He resisted – not only because of the caloric intake of whatever beverage he chose, but because it was still relatively early and there was a great deal he had to do. Especially since he'd turned so much of his staff onto the task of tracking John.

After arriving at the house in Cornwall, the doctor had all but vanished. While John was an adult and free to leave on his own, Mycroft was certain that he hadn't. The doctor had been distraught since Sherlock's death – more so than Mycroft had expected – but he would hardly just abandon his life. John's compassion for Mrs. Hudson alone would prevent it. So he must have been taken – but by whom? No one knew.

He hoped that Sherlock was making more headway finding the last remnants of Moriarty's network. It obviously wasn't a coincidence that John was missing; at least he wouldn't believe that until he saw evidence.

He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and skimmed through his emails. He was only mildly surprised that he didn't yet have a response to the one he sent his brother; he knew Sherlock's electricity was questionable on a good day. Cambodia had seemed like an odd choice. Mycroft had been prepared to set his brother up in a secluded house on the outskirts of Glasgow, but Sherlock had insisted on leaving the country. Instead of going anywhere else in Europe, or to America or Australia he'd insisted on Cambodia.

"Sir," came a quiet voice and Mycroft looked up. One of the young waiters was standing in front of him, a folded piece of paper in his hand. "There's a gentleman in the lobby. He said it's urgent. I tried to explain that he couldn't come back…"

"It's fine, George," Mycroft said. "I'll be out in a minute." He took the note, not surprised to see Lestrade's handwriting. He sighed and set his paper to the side; he had hoped to avoid seeing the inspector in person for at least a while longer. The whole situation really had the potential to become tiresome.

Lestrade was standing by the door, eyeing the clubs list of 'notable members'. He doubted the DI would have heard of any of them.

"Inspector," he said closing the distance and extending his hand. Lestrade turned, his face showing the signs of exhaustion. Mycroft doubted Lestrade had slept since Mrs. Hudson called him yesterday, but he looked as if he hadn't slept for a day or two before that. Mycroft made a mental note to have someone check on the DI's cases. If he was working on anything else, it needed to be reassigned. Finding John was the top priority.

"Do you have any contacts at the Cornish Constabulary?" Lestrade asked. "I spoke with the officer on duty yesterday but haven't been able to get ahold of anyone since. I don't mind going down there, but what if John's come back up here?"

There was an odd look in Lestrade's features. Guilt. The DI felt guilty about John's disappearance. Perhaps he hadn't stayed in touch, perhaps he had gone out of his way to avoid the doctor. It was understandable that Lestrade would be upset about that now, but it was hardly a surprising reaction giving Sherlock's shocking death.

"I'll see who I know but if you can, it wouldn't be a bad idea to travel there. There's been no sign of John in almost three weeks, and that's the last known location. You know him; perhaps you'll see something that the local officers would not, especially if he left a clue about where he was going."

"I'll do that," Lestrade replied. "I'll talk to Donovan, too. She can take over my other cases or pass them on. I'm sure she'd want to help find John. She liked him. _Likes_," he corrected immediately. Mycroft was surprised; he hadn't even noticed the slip. He wondered if that meant he'd already written the doctor off as well. That idea didn't sit well with him – there was no evidence John was dead.

There was no evidence he was still alive either, and if this did lead back to Moriarty… his chances weren't good.

"Likes," Lestrade repeated, quietly and almost to himself. "She likes John." He straightened, giving Mycroft a firm nod. "I'll catch a train this afternoon. I'll get there late but I'll wake up the whole force if I have to."

"Good," Mycroft replied. "Please keep me posted on what you find, and I'll pass on any pertinent information to you as well."

"Thanks," Lestrade said, nodding and turning towards the door. He paused, fingers curled around the knob. "I keep thinking he'd have figured it out. Sherlock, I mean. If he hadn't died."

_If he hadn't died. _The words hung between them for a moment, awkward only to Mycroft.

He took a deep breath and swallowed his hesitation. They would have to be told eventually, and perhaps if he heard it now, it would come as less of a shock.

"Yes, about that…"

* * *

Sherlock's stomach flipped over and he could taste the vegetable curry rising in the back of his throat. His fingers shook as he scrolled up and started to read over the short message again. Surely he'd misunderstood – but there wasn't enough information in the email for him to misinterpret.

_An unexpected move has been made. John is missing. I've attached all notes on the case Scotland Yard has accumulated thus far. I will be in touch. M_

Sherlock reached for one of his many bottles of water and hoped that it would be enough to keep him from being ill. The plumbing was currently less than functional. He swallowed down several gulps, following it with a few deep breath before he was able to open the first document, not at all surprised to see Mrs. Hudson's name at the top of the report.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N – Thanks to ScopesMonkey, she is the reason you are reading this. Seriously. :o)

* * *

"They're on the way, guv." The young constable smiled wanly as Lestrade gave him a distracted nod, looking past him at the other officers waiting by their cars. They looked just as bored and as impatient as he felt.

It was their own fault. The Cornwall Constabulary had refused to allow Lestrade to enter the house without a proper warrant. After waiting for two hours for them to push one through, he'd called Mycroft and had been assured he'd have it within the half hour.

It had taken less than fifteen minutes.

"About bloody time," Lestrade muttered under his breath. He was tired of waiting, tired of staring at the view of the sea – as beautiful as it was. Even the tang of salt on the air seemed grating now, a reminder of the business that had dragged him here from London.

His wife would like it here, though. It was exactly the kind of place she was always on him to holiday. For the first time he saw the appeal - assuming of course that they didn't stumble upon John's body in the woods somewhere.

Or in the house.

_No_, he thought, _Harry's been in the house_. After this long he doubted there was anything to find, but he was going to look anyway. He had to start somewhere, and this was the last place John was known to be.

If Sherlock were alive…

Lestrade shook his head, feeling the bitter taste of anger again. His hands fisted by his side. Sherlock was alive – somewhere in Cambodia according to Mycroft and sure to make a quick trip home to help find John.

And apparently everyone was just going to ignore the fact that John wouldn't be missing if Sherlock hadn't 'died'. Mycroft had insisted the ruse had been the only way, that Sherlock had thought it through. Perhaps he had – but without any consideration for anyone else.

Lestrade had insisted the Mycroft be the one to inform Mrs. Hudson and while he hadn't witnessed it, it certainly hadn't gone well. When Lestrade had called her, she'd barely spoken to him until he'd assured her that he'd been in the dark too. Then her normal friendly disposition had returned instantly.

The sound of another vehicle pulling up drew his attention back to the present. A young, expensively-suited man – obviously one of Mycroft's – climbed out of the polished black car and started towards him.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he said, holding out a folded paper. "Your warrant."

* * *

The DVD was resting at an angle on the pillows, the clear case obviously chosen to stand out against the darker linens and duvet. Lestrade stopped when he saw it, standing still in the doorway. The men behind him kept looking, but he blocked out the sounds of furniture being overturned and SOCOs opening their kits.

Even across the room the bright red words written across the disc's case were visible.

"Dear Sherlock."

* * *

It looked like a hotel room. The camera had obviously been small and mounted between the decorations on the headboard – whenever there was a particularly jarring movement, the dark wood became momentarily visible.

"_Yes,"_ the woman on the video hissed. Her hair was dark, her face turned to one side, invisible on camera. But it was the only part of her that Lestrade couldn't see. Her almost perfectly shaped breasts moved with her body as she arched up, moaning. She had a ring in her navel, silver with a light colored stone. Lestrade focused on that instead of the gentle wave of her body as she reacted to the dark blond head buried between her legs.

She moaned again and Lestrade shifted the edge of the bed. He could feel the eyes of one of the other officers on him but ignored it as best he could.

He knew the man on the video was John. He could see the stark outline of the scar on the right shoulder, and the hair color was right. It only made sense if it were John – what relevance would watching another man….

_Oh, _he thought, distracted by the images in front of him. He heard the officer shift next to him, but didn't look up. The woman arched in a way that had to be painful. Her fingers wove through John's hair just before her body blocked the image. She whimpered, and her ragged breath caught as she started to shake.

She sounded almost in pain as she all but thrashed on the bed for a long few moments, collapsing back onto the mattress and squeezing John's head with her thighs. She appeared to be struggling to hold him in place and push him away at the same time. She relaxed suddenly, twitching once more before John lifted his head and smiled up at her.

This was a recent video, Lestrade noted – there were new lines on his face that hadn't been there before Sherlock's death.

John's smile grew as he planted a kiss into the woman's dark curls. A long red painted thumb traced over John's cheek as he moved up and kissed just above her navel.

"Very nice," she said as John gently latched onto one of her nipples and sucked. Lestrade shifted uncomfortably again as she hummed, pressing her body back into the mattress. One of her hands moved down John's back, squeezing one of his ass cheeks tightly before working its way between them. "Your turn," she whispered, revealing almost nothing about herself with the quiet words – no hint of an accent, no indication of where she might be from.

John lifted his head and Lestrade tried not to note the exact look on the doctor's face as he moved into her. The DI felt the flush rise in his cheeks and wished desperately that the other officer wasn't in the room. He could have stopped the video and sent it off the tech guys for analysis, but it had been left for him to find. He needed the information first hand.

John buried his face in the woman's neck, and Lestrade tried to block his ears to the quiet stream of noises that left the doctor as he hips began a slow cant in and out of the unknown woman. Lestrade looked away for a moment without moving his head, darting his eyes to a spot on the carpet and focusing in on it, trying to push the images from his mind.

He realized with a wave of guilt how embarrassed John would be when he realized they'd seen this. This was going to be seen by more than him and the embarrassed officer beside him – the Yard's techs would go through it for more data, and whoever Mycroft had working for him would do the same. Dozens of people would soon be watching John have sex with this unknown woman all in the name of finding him.

He raised his eyes back to the screen to see the two of them kissing. John's movements had increased slightly and the shadow he cast blocked her face from view. Lestrade found himself almost speaking to the screen, wanting John to move just a bit so they could see her face and possibly identify her.

He felt his stomach turning slightly in both discomfort and something more pleasurable – he wanted to see her face for any number of reasons. The thought sat heavily with him and he had just convinced himself to stop the video when he saw it. The woman's right hand slipped off John's ass cheek and slowly reached under the pillow. She arched, letting out a quiet whimper, thoroughly distracting John as the doctor buried his face in her neck again. John groaned as his movements sped up, pushing almost violently into her. A moment later her hand came out from beneath the pillow holding a syringe.

Lestrade sat up straight, cursing under his breath. The woman held the syringe up, ensuring it was visible to the camera, before plunging it down into John's thigh. The doctor yelped, pushing up on his arms and staring at her in surprise, before looking over his shoulder.

"Sorry," she said, sounding not even remotely remorseful. John opened his mouth to speak just as his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed on top of her. She pulled the syringe out and tossed it aside before gently rubbing her hands up John's back and tousling his hair slightly. Lestrade's stomach turned as she planted a kiss onto John's forehead.

"You can blame Sherlock," she whispered, as she reached for the camera without looking, and pulled it off the wall.

The screen went blank, but Lestrade kept his eyes focused on it. There was a swell of emotions swimming in his belly and they made him want to vomit, or punch something, or both.

The officer cleared his throat and Lestrade looked up. The younger man had a light flush in his cheeks and a look of horror on his face.

"Still think I'm wasting my time?" Lestrade demanded, standing up and returning the disc to its case. He was done here. He slipped it into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He'd make arrangements to head back to London tonight.

Mycroft answered on the first ring, and Lestrade didn't let him speak.

"Worst case scenario," he said.


	6. Chapter 6

"She's Irish," Sherlock said into the satellite phone.

"Sherlock." He could hear his brother's dismissive tone even through the distant connection. Sherlock had known when he'd first her slight accent that his brother wouldn't believe him . "My experts agree that the voice pattern is coming up neutral. Nothing can be determined by what she says–"

"They're only listening when she speaks," Sherlock interrupted pulling the phone's casing away from the young man Mycroft had sent and starting to pace the empty helicopter landing pad. He needed to move, to dissipate some of this energy. "There are several sounds when she's having her orgasm. Have them listen to those." His stomach churned at the idea of dozens of men sitting in some sound lab watching this video over and over – watching John.

There was a laugh and Sherlock's stomach tightened even more. "How on Earth would you be able to distinguish that?"

_Typical_, he thought. But he was right. He knew he was.

"Mycroft you're wasting time. Get someone to Dublin. Check Moriarty's contacts there. She's not a newborn child – there has to be some trace of her. Something that relates back to Moriarty."

"We don't know that this has anything–"

"Of course it does!" Sherlock snapped, fingers closing around the phone as he resisted the urge to throw the whole contraption onto the ground. It was his only connection with London for the next twelve hours. It made no sense to destroy it. "This is John, Mycroft. John! Who else would want to do this? Who else would know that going after John would get me back to London? This is about Moriarty."

There was another sigh, and Sherlock could feel Mycroft giving in. There was a moment of euphoria at the victory – it meant more information. He had so much to go over, all of the facts and even the bloody video, but there was very concrete little information. No one _knew_ anything.

"Find that flight information, Mycroft. Find out who Moriarty went to Hawaii with."

"Sherlock," his brother sighed. "You're guessing now, assuming with no evidence. I'll have everything put together for you when you get here. We can go to Cornwall if you so desire, or even to the hotel–"

"You found the hotel?" Sherlock said.

"Yes," Mycroft said. "I would have informed you had you not started yelling at me as soon as I answered. Sergeant Donovan has located the hotel. I don't know more than that. Lestrade will send me whatever information he gathers. I'll have some of my people there. They should be done by the time you get back."

Sherlock nodded, hearing the faint rumble that indicated their helicopter was finally arriving.

"Finally," he snarled and watched his imposed companion cringe slightly at the force of his tone. He would to have to make sure Mycroft knew this one was never going to make it in the foreign service.

"Get on the helicopter," Mycroft said. "And try to rest if possible. I know that you'll do little to none of that upon your arrival."

Of course he wouldn't sleep. John was missing.

The sound of the motor and the blades grew louder. Sherlock watched the helicopter become visible over the trees and frowned, a list of other things he wanted to tell his brother quickly flooding through his head. There were so many things to look at, so many theories to test.

Too many. Too many to go through now. He needed to think, organize.

He needed to get back to London.

* * *

"He's doing well today," the blond nurse said as they walked down the short hallway. He always did well on the days she visited, it was almost as if he knew she was making the trip. "He's been talking about his son," the nurse added.

"Good," Siobhan replied, simply because something was required. _Son, _she thought trying to push down the revulsion, it wouldn't do to draw attention to herself, especially today. "Is the doctor in? Perhaps I could have a word about his prognosis?" She already knew the answer, but watched with feigned interest as the nurse's forehead wrinkled and she prepared to give her standard negative response.

"Unfortunately, no. He'll be in tomorrow though, if you're still available." Siobhan tried not to point out that the woman's too-blue eyes shadow was entirely the wrong shade given her skin tone, and that she looked alarmingly like a clown and certainly must terrify all the pensioners she dealt with every day. Tacky, really.

"No, I have to be back in London tomorrow. Perhaps I'll call. Kierney, right? Is that the name of the doctor who sees to him?"

"Yes," the nurse said. Siobhan knew precisely who he was of course – a ginger-haired doctor, almost ten years older than her. She'd met him once, several years ago when he made an unexpected visit to the home. She hated being surprised and had been initially very put off by his presence. Two hours later when she'd been riding him like a stallion on his office sofa, she hadn't minded so much.

It had been tolerable – better than average if she was being honest – but quick and to the point. He was married, so had no interest in further involvement.

Her favorite kind of man.

They turned the final corner and Siobhan spotted him immediately, sitting in his wheelchair staring out over the mostly brown gardens.

"Thank you," Siobhan said, managing to hold back the snarl as the nurse turned away. She wouldn't have to tolerate the other woman much longer, she reminded herself.

When the room was empty of all non-dementia patients, Siobhan pulled a chair over and sat down to looked out over the brown grass.

"Hi, Papa," she said, wrapping her fingers round his wrist.

He didn't look at her, keeping his gaze steady over the nothingness.

"I have some bad news, Papa. I wanted you to hear it from me instead of the telly." She squeezed his arm again, feeling the thin muscles over the sharp bones, the skin long since too big for the body. It was almost sickening. "Little Jimmy, do you remember him?" There was an almost grunt, and her stomach turned again. Of course he remembered. Of course he knew Jim. He hadn't recognized his daughter in years, but he responded to the prospect that she might bring news of the golden child, the son that he'd never had. The one he'd always wanted.

"He's dead, Papa. Suicide." A violent shudder and another grunt. She knew he understood and managed not to feel the small pang of triumph. Jim's death was a tragedy, one that had to be avenged. The fact that her father had loved the little street boy more than her was irrelevant.

He'd been her Jim, too.

"I'm taking care of it, Papa. I just wanted you to know." Another grunt followed by a nod. She grabbed the edge of his shirt and wiped away a bit of drool. She'd sent him handkerchiefs for Christmas, nice ones from that boutique on Rodeo Drive. They'd probably been stolen by the staff long ago.

"They'll pay, Papa. I promise. But I can't have them find you. You're the last connection between the two of us. You're the last person who can lead them to me."

The syringe was suddenly heavy in her pocket, and she did a quick, casual look around the room to verify that there was nobody else who would notice anything. She tightened her fingers around his wrist and flipped his arm over. The bruises were the worst here, from the bonds they didn't think she knew about, holding her father into bed every night.

It was disgusting, but there was nothing to be done about it now. The needle slipped in easily, her father barely registering its presence. Siobhan injected the contents, before dropping the syringe gently back into her pocket.

She leaned forwards and placed a kiss on his temple. She wouldn't say that she loved him. There was no point lying now.

* * *

It took three minutes – exactly – before he slumped over in his chair. Siobhan waited another minute just to ensure he was dead before she started screaming, knocking her chair backwards and making as much noise as possible.

The nursing staff came running, several of them tending to her father. The blond one who'd escorted her in was pulling on her arms, trying to push her out of the room. Siobhan went, struggling just the right amount. She sat on the soft sofa to which she'd been guided, and buried her face in her hands, the tears dripping between her fingers.

She was very good at this.

They didn't leave her alone the entire time, and it took less than ten minutes for them to confirm that her father had died. She'd acted surprised, demanding to know what happened.

They thought his heart, which only made sense as he'd had three heart attacks. She nodded in all the right places and calmed herself at just the right pace.

When they offered to see her back to her hotel, she turned them down. She'd be fine, she insisted. The drive was short, and she wanted to be alone.

They understood and were kind, even though they didn't care. Siobhan was tempted to make them keep up the act, but she was tired of this place already. It was time to go home, time to take the next step.

She had to see her father's belongings though, and they left her alone to sort through the meager collection. She took the pictures and the letters, leaving the rest for whoever was in charge of clearing out the room. Nothing else could lead back to her.

Siobhan was unsurprised to see no one waiting for her when she left. She smiled, running her fingers over the small plate on the wall with her father's name.

"Good bye, Sebastian Moran," she whispered.


	7. Chapter 7

The unexpected punch knocked him to the ground. He lay there for a minute listening to the scuffle going on above him, scowling when Mycroft spoke.

"There really isn't time for this now."

"Sorry," Lestrade said with absolutely no hint of regret in his voice. Sherlock shifted to sit on the curb and glared at the DI.

"Was that really necessary?" he asked, barely noting Mycroft's look of distaste, mostly because it was directed at him and not Lestrade.

"Yeah," Lestrade said. "And it felt pretty good, too."

_Hardly, _Sherlock thought, noting Lestrade flexing his fingers. He'd probably broken his hand, but he certainly wasn't going to give Sherlock the satisfaction of admitting to that. Sherlock had expected people to rejoice at seeing him alive, but the glare still on the DI's face suggested that perhaps his assumption had been incorrect.

Anger seemed to be the current reaction.

"Are we done now?" Mycroft asked, glancing at Lestrade.

The DI glared at Sherlock another second before nodding and turning away. Sherlock shifted his attention to his brother, rubbing his aching jaw.

"The hotel?" he began.

"Bed and breakfast," the DI corrected.

"Yes," Mycroft started, offering his hand to Sherlock to help him to his feet. "In Cornwall, just down from the pub John was frequenting during his stay. The patrons remember him, but apparently he chatted up several different women while there and none of the regulars remember any specifics. As for the B&B," Sherlock noted he used Lestrade's terminology and not his own generalization, "It's owned by an older couple–"

"The Archibalds," Lestrade said as he moved towards the waiting car.

"The Archibalds," Mycroft continued, following Lestrade. "They had a guest registered there the week that Harry lost contact. The woman used a fake name. We can find no record of her anywhere else, and she paid with cash upfront, so the Archibald's didn't feel the need to ask for identification."

"Of course not," Sherlock said, shaking his head, stopping when it made his jaw ache. "And I suppose they have no recollection of John coming back with her."

"No," Mycroft said as they reached the car. "But they go to bed at eight exactly, and the guests are free to come and go whenever they please. She was the only one there at the time, but the room has been rented out four times since then."

Sherlock sighed, slipping in beside Mycroft. No clues, no trail. The planning was complex – too complex. If it was a game meant for Sherlock, she was giving him nothing to work with, no evidence.

"What was the name she used?" he asked, glancing out the window. He didn't recognize the buildings, but the feel was familiar. Something settled inside of him, a sense of ease, comfort. It was London. His city.

"Brooke Hardy," Lestrade answered, the words easing into Sherlock's brain slowly as he took in the sights. He'd expected 'Mary Smith' or 'Jane Jones' or something equally as idiotically generic . _Brooke Hardy, _he thought, processing the words that made up the name.

The solution appeared instantly.

"Richard," Sherlock whispered and the attention of those in the car settle on him. He turned back from the window to meet Mycroft's eyes. "One of the meanings of name Richard is 'hardy'. Brooke Richard." He laughed, causing Lestrade to glance over his shoulder, it took just a second for the two men to make the connection.

"Brooke Richard, Richard Brooks." He laughed again, sharply, focusing his attention on his brother. "Still think this has nothing to do with Moriarty?"

Mycroft opened his mouth, but was cut off by the sound of Lestrade's phone.

* * *

It was obvious to Mrs. Hudson, although she didn't know why. Perhaps all that time with Sherlock had taught her to notice things. A smell maybe – a slight hint of perfume or the memory of an unfamiliar sound.

Her fingers closed over the knob as she debated on whether or not to turn it. She could call Greg. He'd send people, even if he couldn't come himself. Sherlock was coming back today. The thought of it made her ecstatic and irate in the same breath. She'd cleaned up the flat properly though, and made sure his bed had clean sheets, even if he wouldn't be grateful.

Even if she didn't know how long he'd be back.

Mrs. Hudson shook the thought away and closed her eyes, listening hard, but heard no small noises, no sounds of any kind.

She took a deep breath, eyed the staircase and thought of her phone sitting on the small table next to her sofa, then she turned the knob.

She thought for a moment she was being ridiculous. Nothing looked out of place. Nothing was wrong.

Then her eyes settled on John's chair. The pile of clothing – jeans and a jumper that she recognized as John's – hadn't been there earlier. Mrs. Hudson took a tentative step towards them before she spotted the DVD case.

"John Hamish Watson. Take Two!" The letters were loopy, spread across the surface of the disc. Her breath caught as she thought about what Lestrade had found in Cornwall. The DI had been vague, but Mrs. Hudson had easily understood what wasn't said.

She exhaled slowly, her heart starting to pound in her chest. Mrs. Hudson hesitated for just a second before turning and heading downstairs and towards her mobile.

* * *

Sherlock noticed the plant first, bright green leaves spread out all over the mantle. It was wrong, and he resisted the urge to grab the pot and throw the whole thing out of the window. Mrs. Hudson looked on it fondly, and obviously John had tolerated its presence – although the doctor had never previously shown any inclination towards botanical care.

The plant could be relocated later, when he was alone.

The flat was a lot neater than he was used to. He frowned at the empty desk, and at the small fruit bowl sat in the middle of the kitchen table. All traces of his scientific equipment were gone. His cold case files and all of his documented research also appeared to be gone. It was almost as if Baker Street had never been his home, but instead a lonely former army surgeon had resided there all by himself.

Anderson glared at Sherlock as he made his way quickly around the room, looking for evidence. Lestrade had insisted upon it, and Mycroft had agreed. Sherlock knew it was a waste of time. Anderson was incompetent and whoever was behind this wasn't going to just leave anything so obvious as a fingerprint. She was too clever for that. Her plan too good.

She'd known before he arrived that he was coming home. The clothes and disc had obviously been planted when he was still in the air. Mrs. Hudson had been in the flat earlier in the day. She had a connection, a source for all of her information.

The idea both excited and slightly intimidated him. If the stakes weren't so high – if it wasn't John – it would be simply exhilarating.

"Nothing," Anderson said. Lestrade let out a slow breath, and Sherlock just shook his head.

"Of course not," he snapped, grabbing for the disc and pushing it into the DVD player.

"I liked it better when he was dead," Anderson said, more than likely to Lestrade, but Sherlock didn't feel compelled to acknowledge him. His skin was itching, the muscles twitching all over his body, he was anxious. Desperate to do something, learn anything he could.

Sherlock lifted the clothes to sit in John's chair. He felt comforting weight of the materials pressed against his stomach and resisted the urge to pull them to his chest. The gesture wouldn't be understood by anyone else in the room.

The television screen was black as music started to play. _Chopin_, he thought, Etude number 3 in E major.

_Tristesse._

He filed the information away in case there was some relevance for it later.

The light slowly came up, the picture slowly coming into focus. John's face appeared a moment later, and Sherlock's gasp was echoed by the others in the room.


	8. Chapter 8

Warnings: What follows is a depiction of sexual torture. It isn't particularly detailed, but should be avoided if this is something that will upset you. The chapter is necessary for the story, but I don't believe that your overall understanding will be hampered if this chapter is skipped. However the actions in this chapter will be referenced through the rest of the story. Please consider yourself warned.

* * *

John tried in vain to notice anything distinctive about the dimly lit room. There wasn't much to see. The place appeared to be newly constructed, or in the process of a remodel. Half of the walls were bare drywall, the other half still only wood framing. The floor was concrete, covered with a fine coating of dust. John could make out footprints amid the mess, but very few were clear, and as he glanced down his naked body he could see a thin film covering the top of his toes where he'd been dragged to his current location.

His head ached; an after effect of whatever she'd drugged him with. He pulled on the restraints at his wrists and ankles and decided he'd have very little luck forcing them. The leather was soft, but the bindings were secure. Especially the one wrapped around his rib cage, binding him to the wall.

John thought of her again. He had a clear memory of her face as she smiled at him across the bar. He'd smiled back, raising his pint at her before instructing the publican to send one her way. She'd laughed quietly several minutes later when she sat down beside him, and she'd tasted like strawberries when he'd kissed her outside of her room at the small B&B. He hadn't devoted too much of his brain power to anything other than giving in to his desire to follow her home. Women had become a bit of a problem since Sherlock died, but he'd had no real inclination to address the issue.

His insistence on denial seemed like a very bad idea given his current circumstances. Especially as he couldn't even remember her name. Surely he should know the name of the woman who'd drugged him and tied him up in an abandon construction site.

"Hello," John cried out, listening to his voice echo back at him – and that was all. He realized suddenly that he was surrounded by complete silence. There was none of the usual background noise that he'd expected living in London, and that had penetrated even the darkest recesses of his Cornish hideaway. There were no cars, no birds, no voices, no sounds of the sea. Just his breathing and the quiet sound of nothing.

"Hello," he said again, solely so that he'd hear something. When the echo stopped and the quiet clicking of shoes followed it, John was surprised, and almost grateful.

He tried to focus on the sound as it got louder, but was unable to follow it. The echo was distracting, throwing sound about the room.

"John, John, John," came a quiet Irish voice and John snapped his head around to see _her._ "I really am sorry about this. Under different circumstances, I'd have liked you, a lot. But right now you are my means to an end."

"What do you want?" John asked, berating himself. Name, rank, serial number. The response had been ingrained in him, and to throw it away so easily was stupid. He wouldn't be alive if she didn't need something from him.

She smiled at him, her bright red boots glinting in faint overhead light. Her long hair was pulled back, swinging over her shoulder as she closed the distance between them. "I just need to keep you here, John, to keep you hidden away until they notice you're gone. I need him to come looking for you. Surely Sherlock won't let you stay missing for long."

John swallowed, the name of his friend aching through his chest even after all these months, even now..

"Sherlock's dead," he said, forcing the painful words out past reluctant lips.

She smiled at him and the sight of it shivered up his spine. "It's sad that he made you think so," she replied quietly, moving closer. So close that John could smell her. "But rest assured, dear doctor, your _bestie_ is very much alive. I don't know where, but he is alive. And having you is certain to draw him out; after all, he died to protect you."

John shook his head. He couldn't believe her. Wouldn't believe her.

She laughed again, dragging long nails up his outer thighs. Unpleasant goose bumps sprang up in the wake of her touch and his body fought the urge to fold inward, to protect itself.

"You don't have to believe me, John. But that doesn't mean I'm wrong. When this is over and I'm through with you, Sherlock will be to blame. You should remember that. Your friend, your _best_ friend, who abandoned you, deserted you and left you all alone at the mercy of people like me, is to blame for this. Sherlock and his dear friend Molly Hooper – you should hate her too. But, alas, right here and now, it doesn't matter. As I recall I am in your debt. You treated me to a wonderful time before you had to take your little nap."

She dragged her nails along his hip as she leaned forward to brush her nose against his jaw. John turned his head, avoiding the contact. She smiled against him, planting a kiss into his neck. His skin crawled at her touch, his back throbbing as the muscles tensed. The urge to fight or to run was overpowering, but he had no place to go.

"Do you know that an erection is a biological function and in many cases can be forced?" Her words bounced off his neck, and he resisted the urge to wince as her fingers closed around his limp cock, squeezing gently before pulling several times. His lower body was imploding, his pelvis working to push back, away from a contact it couldn't avoid. "I'm sure that if I were patient we could have a good time." She sank her teeth into his neck, pulling none-to-gently on the skin. "However, I'm running out of patience." She pulled on him again and he forced his eyes closed, biting his lip to keep from crying out.

"Siobhan," she whispered in his ear, biting on the lobe. "My name is Siobhan; I thought I'd tell you seeing how you never asked." Her tongue darted out, dragging down his neck. His stomach churned, a wave of nausea overwhelming for him a moment, at the same time he felt blood start to pool in his groin. His body was reacting to her – and betraying him.

Cold metal against his skin made John snap his eyes open, looking down his body as she fitted the contraption over him. He had no idea what it was, but he winced as a rubber strap was slipped around his balls.

"That will help a bit with the grounding," Siobhan said leaning down to unravel several feet of wire. "I chose batteries instead of plugging you directly into a socket," she continued, trailing the wires along the wall. "The batteries will eventually run out of power."

John watched in horror as she pulled a metal plate attached to a collection of car batteries out of the corner. She tugged gently on the wires attached to him and connected the first one. "This will hurt a bit, sorry about that, but I do owe you a happy ending." She slipped the last one into place , and John's body jolted as the first shock hit him. He gasped, swallowing down another cry.

"So quiet," she said moving to stand in front of him again. "That won't last." She grinned at him as his body shook again. It was both excruciating. "This is a little toy I created a while back. The current alternates, as you can see," he shook again, letting out a grunt this time, "and intensifies in ten minute increments. Enjoy." Siobhan waited until he was shocked again before tapping gently on his still-soft member. "And don't forget to smile for the camera."

She turned, one long red nail pointed directly ahead of her. John spotted the hole in the wall and the faint circular shape of the camera lens. Why hadn't he noticed it before?

She was recording this. His body jolted again, twitching uncontrollably from the current. The blood pounding in his ears masking her fleeting footsteps.

* * *

"What did she put on him?" Mrs. Hudson asked for the third time, tears in her voice, and she still did not get an answer.

Sherlock heard a shifting behind him that was Lestrade offering her comfort, but he ignored that too. He focused on the image in front of him, the woman walking away, John strapped to the wall, and the beat of the music as the volume increased on the video.

They'd watched as she touched John, talked to John, and strapped John to her homemade torture device, but the music had played on, coming to an end before starting over. She was allowing them to see, but not to hear. It was frustrating and also a bit of an unwanted relief. Based solely on appearance, John seemed to be holding up very well; if they were able to hear the words he spoke they might learn otherwise.

The doctor's body twitching on the screen drew the detective's attention back, and Sherlock allowed himself to study John in the moment before the screen went black. It startled him, and he sat bolt upright in the chair just as Mrs. Hudson gasped.

"Oh my god," she whispered. "What is she doing to him? Who is she?"

Sherlock ignored her, having no answers and not even sure of all the questions yet. He had to be missing something. There had to be more.

He was reaching for the remote – he needed to watch the video again – when the sound suddenly returned. But not the quiet strains of Chopin's magical notes. It was a whimper, a quiet, almost indistinguishable whimper.

The words _TWO HOURS LATER _flashed across the screen in bright red letters just before it began.

A blood curdling, anguished scream.

The small grainy image of John appeared on the screen again, his body thrashing against the restraints, his face distorted in obvious agony. Sherlock went numb, his brain focused on his closest friend. Mrs. Hudson started to sob, the sound quickly muffed by burying her face into Lestrade's chest.

"Jesus," Lestrade muttered, as Mycroft let out a quiet gasp.

And just as quickly as it started the screaming stopped, John's body going limp as he sagged against the restraints. There was another faint whimper, and a quiet sigh from the small man on the screen, perhaps a word or a name. Sherlock couldn't tell. He had an overpowering urge to grab the telly and throw it across the room, to deny what he'd seen so it didn't have to be real, but he knew better. He knew that John had gone through this, that his best friend had suffered, been tortured, violated by Moriarty's woman.

The screen went black again and the DVD player hummed as it reached the end of the disc. Sherlock dug his fingers into the cool fabric of the chair and took a deep breath. With long ago mastered skill he swallowed down his emotions, all of the fear and the hatred – and it was the hardest thing he'd ever asked his mind to do.


	9. Chapter 9

"Hey, Clara, it's me. Again. I know you are busy, but I just– I just wanted to talk ." Harry sighed and looked at herself in the mirror. "Please call me back," she added, her voice trailing off before she hit the end button and dropped her mobile back on the bar. She knew Clara wouldn't call back. She'd offered her sympathies when she'd heard from a mutual friend that John was missing, but that was all. Harry had been surprised to hear from Clara, and for the first time since before they'd divorced Harry wanted to see her ex.

"Pathetic," she said to her reflection in the mirror. "You left her, idiot." She shook her head and glanced back down at the glass sitting on the bar in front of her. She couldn't bring herself to pick it up. She couldn't take a drink. John would hate if she did it because of him, if she threw away six months sober.

But she wanted it. Desperately. Especially after hearing that Sherlock had resurrected from the dead, returning to London that very morning. Mrs. Hudson had filled her in, trying to offer comfort while obviously pushing down her own anger at the detective for lying. Harry wondered what kind of reception Sherlock had received. Probably not a warm one.

"Are you ready for me to take that away?"

The voice disrupted her train of thought and Harry looked up into warm brown eyes. She offered a smile and received one in return, feeling a swell of something in her chest. Swallowed past the interest, she focused on the glass to which the bartender referred. Long red nails were tapping on the bar next to the whiskey, and Harry shook her head.

"I recognize an alcoholic when I see one," the bartender said smoothly, in an accent that Harry couldn't quite place, but that she liked. "I can make your plight easier," the bartender continued, fingers closing around the glass. "It's simple really."

She lifted the glass, her lips puckered around the edge before tilting it back. Harry focused on the woman's throat as she swallowed the amber liquid, her own mouth becoming dry.

The bartender sat the glass back on the smooth wood surface and smiled again.

"Now," the woman said, "why don't you tell me what's pushed you to the edge?"

* * *

Harry arched off the bed, collapsing back when the hot tongue eased back, slipping off her clitoris.

"Oh god," she said, weaving her fingers into her lover's red hair, trying to force her back into position.

"Patience," said the bartender said, the words vibrating against Harry's thighs. "It'll be worth it."

Harry nodded, unable to speak when the quiet hum filled the room. Her eyes snapped open, her abdominal muscles shifting as she lifted her head, spotting the purple vibrator.

"Don't think we'll need any lube," her lover said, brushing the vibrator through Harry's curls. "You seem ready."

Harry nodded, her eyes going wide as the vibrator moved out of sight and brown eyes shone up at her, a sly smile crossing the bartender's face as the cool plastic pressed against her.

"Shit," Harry said, letting her head drop back to the pillow. "Yes," she hissed as it was pushed inside.

* * *

The smell of cigarette smoke filled the air before the breeze cast it away. Harry found she didn't mind it so much, at least she wasn't drinking.

"I'm sorry about your brother," the bartender said, reaching for the cigarette and taking a drag.

"Yeah," Harry said, the weight of it resting on her chest again. The liaison had been a great distraction, but it hadn't lasted long enough. And as beautiful as the stranger was the idea of taking her back to bed wasn't appealing. A part of Harry wanted her to just leave, to pretend like this whole thing didn't happen.

And a part of her wanted the bartender to stay.

She pulled her jumper tighter around herself and looked out over the small courtyard behind her building. She could almost forget she was in London if it wasn't for the constant sound of the traffic reaching them.

"I'm Harriet, by the way," Harry said. "Harry, really."

The bartender smiled, almost a smirk. "Siobhan," she said, taking another drag and handing the cigarette back. "Maybe it would help if you talked about it. What have they learned? What's next?"

* * *

The only light in the room was the blue glow from the television. Mycroft had left hours ago, not long after Lestrade had escorted Mrs. Hudson back to her flat. Sherlock had noted the sound of the doors opening and closing, and cars driving away, but he hadn't looked away from the television. He couldn't.

He rewound the images again, watching the entire scene play out. There was something he was missing. There had to be. He'd been away too long. Not enough thinking. He shouldn't have left. There had to have been an alternative, some other way to keep John safe.

He took a deep breath, and watched the images in reverse as he moved backward through the video again.

He let it play through, focusing on the woman this time. Her movements, her actions. She was Irish – he knew that already, but there had to be more. John had to know more.

The music stopped, and Sherlock let his eyes focus on John just as the screaming started. He flinched for the first time in a long while. He'd almost become almost immune to the noise. But this time it ached through his body again, sent fear surging up his spine, and anger clenched his muscles.

John. They were doing this to his John, for no other reason than to draw him back to London. It was horrifying. And it had worked. All he could do now was wait for them to make their move.

Sherlock tried to silence the part of his mind that told him the next move would be finding John's body. That was unthinkable, impossible. Unacceptable. He wouldn't allow it.

John wouldn't be dead.

He focused on John's face as his body sank against the restraints. The agony ripping John apart and aching through Sherlock's chest. It was almost unbearable.

Sherlock focused on John's lips, leaning forward in his chair, not for the first time, to see if he could make out what the doctor was mouthing. He squinted, moving his lips like John's, trying to decipher what it could be. The camera was too far away, the shadows not right.

He watched the video again, dismissing several potential words.

Sherlock mimicked John again, freezing as his mouth formed a name – a familiar name.

He rewound again, and then again, confirming that it fit before turning the telly off.

Sherlock reached for his mobile, pressing in his brother's number.

"Molly," he said as soon as Mycroft answered. "In the video, John is saying 'Molly'." He thundered down the stairs, not caring if Mrs. Hudson had already gone to bed. "Get Lestrade and meet me at Bart's."

* * *

The knocking penetrated Harry's sleep and she managed to push herself up. She should have gone to bed when Siobhan left, but couldn't bring herself to go back into the bedroom. It felt dirty, somehow. Contaminated. Her brother was missing and she'd brought home a strange woman for a one-night stand. What a wonderful tribute to John.

The two women hadn't even bothered pretending like it would be more. Harry had spilled her guts over a shared pack of cigarettes and a bag of crisps. She told the stranger everything she knew, and felt relief at being able to discuss it, even though she knew the bartender didn't really care.

And when Harry was done talking, Siobhan slipped back into her clothes, gave Harry a lingering kiss and left. Harry didn't even bother to look down to see her leave the building. It hadn't mattered anymore, the distraction was over, and the real world had crept back in.

Harry had simply locked her doors, flopped down on the couch, and turned on the telly. Sleep had taken her not long after.

She stood, stretching as she walked towards her door, glancing at the clock on the oven. Just after one in the morning. She only vaguely wondered who it was, and wasn't surprised when she glanced at the peep hole and see Lestrade standing in the hallway.

"Hello," she said as she opened the door, noting immediately that he looked horrible. Exhausted and overwhelmed. Harry stood to the side and let him enter; if she was going to hear that her brother was dead, she wanted to do it on the couch.

Her hand was shaking as she closed the door.

"There was another video," he said, as she gestured for him to sit down. "It was left for Sherlock. I wanted to make sure you heard about it from me."

Harry nodded, grabbing for the blanket to wrap around herself. A video was a far cry from John's dead body, but she couldn't feel relieved. Lestrade's tone was still ominous.

"It wasn't pretty," he began, and was about to continue when his phone started to ring.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N - Violence and death.

* * *

"Can't we use the siren?" Harry said with none of the panic or anger Lestrade expected to hear. She sounded defeated, and he didn't like that. In his experience when the family gave up, there was very little hope. And this was John; he wanted to have hope.

"This is um—" Lestrade paused, stopping behind a queue of cars at a red light. He glanced at Harry; she looked back at him with no emotion in her features. He plastered a smile on his face, and knew it looked fake. "It is my personal vehicle," he said. "No siren."

Harry nodded, turning back to the traffic in front of them. Lestrade studied her in the mix of London street lights and frowned. She looked older than she had the last time he'd seen her, which wasn't surprising. There was no other family. She was, to some degree, alone in this.

"This Molly," she said, not looking back to him as they started moving again. "This is the woman at the morgue, right? The one who helped Sherlock by giving him access to the bodies?"

"Yeah."

Harry sighed, shifting in the seat.

"I met her once, a couple of years ago. John's birthday party. She seemed," she paused, and Lestrade glanced over to see her face contort as she thought it over. He suspected she was trying to come up with a pleasant adjective.

"Needy," he filled in.

Harry thought for another second, and nodded.

"Yes, I guess that works. I was thinking more infatuated. With Sherlock."

"That, too."

She chuckled, and Lestrade smiled, but it faded as soon as he remembered why they were going to see Molly.

"Apparently she also helped Sherlock with…" he trailed off, still unable to get past the anger that swelled in his throat. He shook his head and felt Harry's eyes on him.

"John could never talk about it," she said after a minute. "It is almost as bad as when he came back from Afghanistan — maybe worse actually. He was so devastated when Sherlock died, I can't even imagine what he would have—" She paused and took a deep breath. Lestrade glanced at her again, but she continued, the tears barely noticeable in her tone. "When he finds out that he was lied to."

"Well, I already punched him, so John's going to have to come up with something else."

"I can think of a few things," Harry said, as they turned the last corner and Bart's appeared in front of them.

* * *

"Molly Hooper?" the young man asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes, throwing his hands up in the air. He spotted Lestrade walking down the hallway and frowned to see Harry following behind him. Her presence was both unnecessary and discomfiting.

Harry met his eyes, hatred flashing across her features before she got it under control. She blamed him, and she was right to.

"Yes," Mycroft said, managing to keep a calm tone with the young man who was clearly and idiot. "Molly Hooper. You know her don't you?"

"Yeah, of course," he sniffled and wiped his nose on his lab coat. "She was here earlier, but I ain't seen her in a while. Might've taken her tea or something. Been a slow night with no bodies coming in."

"Wonderful," Sherlock said turning towards her brother. "There's a patisserie around the corner, she eats there—"

"It closed last month," the idiot said, interrupting Sherlock as he turned to go down the hallway. "The owner's mum died and he went back to Bordeaux. Everyone was kinda angry about it, it being the only close place."

"Where would she have gone then?" Lestrade asked.

"Any number of places, mate."

* * *

"There's a Starbuck's and a Costa down the road. Lestrade's checking them." Sherlock nodded, barely acknowledging his brother's words.

He was missing something. He closed his eyes and focused on the cold metal of the bench as it pressed into his back.

"Is she involved? Does she know where John is?"

The voice surprised him, because he hadn't heard Harry approaching. He took a deep breath before opening his eyes and looking up at her. Her stance and the tightness around her lips showed just how hard she was struggling to control her anger. He wished, for a second, that she'd just blow up at him.

"I don't know what Molly knows. She isn't intelligent enough to organize anything more complicated than a dinner party — a disappointing one at that — but she is gullible enough to have been roped in unwillingly. Which is why we are looking for her." He paused. "Obviously."

"Obviously," Harry said, turning away from him. Sherlock hoped for her anger again, but it didn't come. He studied her profile as she shook her head glancing over the small collection of officers Lestrade had managed to organize.

"He said there was a video." Sherlock followed Harry's gaze and realized she was speaking of the D.I. "He didn't explain much. Just said that it wasn't pleasant." She swallowed, keeping her voice low and he knew her next question before she could ask it.

"Is he alive, Sherlock?" She turned back meeting his eyes again. She'd believe him no matter what he said, and she wanted an answer.

He didn't have one to give, and was about to say so when he heard his name.

"Sherlock?" Everyone turned to faced Molly as she crossed the street towards them.

Sherlock jumped from the bench, moving to meet her, aware of Harry just behind him.

There was shock on her face — and relief. As Sherlock reached out to grab her arms, her pupils dilated. She was still interested in him — maybe always would be, but it was irrelevant. He dug his fingers into her flesh, seeing the flash of pain and confusion.

"Where's John?" He demanded, shaking her and watching her head bob back and forth with the force of it. "Where is he?"

"Sherlock," Harry said, and he felt her hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off and forcefully shook Molly again.

"John, Molly, where is John?"

"What?" she managed, and he heard the fear. Harry said his name again, trying to stop him, and Mycroft grabbed his arm.

He'd turned a snarl crossing his face when the warm splatter hit his cheek. Molly sagged in his grip and he watched Harry's face as it flashed to confusion then shock. Her mouth dropped and she went ashen as he turned back. He noted the hole in Molly's forehead, blood oozing out and down her nose, just as Harry started to scream.


	11. Chapter 11

Warning - Violence

* * *

The screaming echoed, disrupting all of his other senses. He couldn't isolate anything but Harry's scream. It wouldn't stop – but time had. It stood still.

Sherlock let go, and Molly sank to the ground. Her head bumped his shoe. He looked down. His stomach turned.

"Get down," Lestrade hissed. Harry was pulled to the ground and dragged behind a car.

"_Sherlock_." Mycroft had his arm, was pulling him away. The detective went willingly for a moment, stopping when Harry started to scream again. He shook his head and yanked away from his brother.

Chaos.

Officers were running in all directions. Taking refuge behind all barriers. Harry was still screaming, a constant monotonous noise that should have been impossible to maintain. How was she breathing?

Quiet. He needed her to be quiet. He needed everyone to be quiet. Sherlock shook his head, feeling Mycroft pull again, voice raised to carry over the din. Harry kept screaming; now Lestrade was yelling.

No one was paying _attention_.

It wasn't right. He glanced towards Bart's, his eyes trailing upwards. The roof. Too dark to see. Too many lights. But he _knew_. He'd stood there. Right on that ledge. And John had stood down here. Sherlock looked at Molly's body on the ground, at the blood pooling around her. She'd been there that day too. She'd complied happily. She'd help him lie to everyone.

Lie to John.

"The roof," he shouted, his voice sounding hollow. Lestrade's eyes met his, just as Mycroft pulled him down. There were sirens now, in the distance. Officers moving from their hiding places in a pattern.

Sherlock hit the ground, half landing on his brother. "The roof," he repeated, raising his voice. Harry was still screaming. Lestrade had an arm around her. "The shooter was on the roof of Bart's."

Lestrade nodded.

"Lock it down!"

It was the right move. But the group was small, shaken. Harry wasn't helping. Neither was Molly. A death that had surprised them all.

Sherlock looked towards the roof again. _She_ was too quick. Too good. _She_ would get away, and Sherlock knew it was her.

He planted a hand on Mycroft's chest and pushed himself to standing. There was a muffled complaint, a shout of protest. Sherlock took off running.

Doctors and nurses were just filing out of the doors, anxious to explore the commotion outside. No A&E. Less equipped for trauma. Slower responses – but it didn't matter. No one could help Molly. But they could help Harry. Harry needed a sedative. Simple enough that any idiot could accomplish it.

There was a wave of concern for John's sister – but there wasn't time. She'd wait. Lestrade would take care of her.

A door. A stairwell. The one that would take him to the roof. Sherlock tried to grasp how much time had passed, but didn't know. He'd believe it had been an hour. It had probably only been a few minutes.

It didn't matter. She wouldn't be there. Too smart. Too good. She'd blend in, and be gone.

But there would be _something_.

* * *

Sherlock's legs burned, but he pushed through it, closing his fingers around the knob and throwing the door open. There was a noticeable difference in temperature and his lungs ached as he gasped, trying to catch his breath.

He focused on the shadows, darting eyes looking for anything. Any_one_. There was no movement, no sound that wasn't drifting up from the street below.

She was gone.

He took a cautious step and then another. There was a faint whiff of something sweet, perfume, he paused sorting through his memory. Escada, he was sure, Magnetism he suspected. Although they continually came out with similar smelling scents so it could have a new name now. He spun around, the sounds of the sirens below growing louder. The scent faded and he filed it away as he took another step into the cool darkness.

"John?" he asked, mentally chastising himself. If John was there and alive, Sherlock would have heard him, heard something.

A few more steps, his mind superimposing the last time he'd been on the roof. The similarities were ignored, the differences analyzed.

A flash of light. A reflection. He immediately knew what it was. Images of John chained to the wall shivered up his spine as he closed the distance, kneeling over it.

Footsteps, but they were recognizable.

"Don't touch it," he heard. Lestrade had finally caught up with him.

"She didn't leave anything behind," Sherlock responded, as his fingers closed around the cool plastic. Too smart. Too good. She wasn't about to leave fingerprints.

"Fuck," Lestrade muttered. Sherlock ignored him, holding up the CD case to read the small note that had been left on the outside.

_Jim missed one. I didn't._

* * *

When Sherlock had been a child he'd stolen several of Mycroft's army toys and lost them in the creek by their house. He remembered being afraid and defiant when he'd stoically explained what had happened. Their mother had tapped him on the head, praised him for his honesty, and told Mycroft they were easy enough to replace. His brother hadn't been as forgiving. Mycroft had grabbed his arm, and shaken him violently as soon as their mother was out of sight.

"If you ever touch my stuff again I _will_ introduce you to the horrors of electroshock therapy!"

Mycroft had pushed him to the ground and stormed off. Sherlock had gone quietly to his room and cried for several minutes, before pushing the emotions away and setting about the research of his brother's newest threat.

The exact wording of that first encyclopedia entry repeated over and over in his brain as he watched John's body violently seize on the screen in front of him.

"Jesus Christ," Lestrade said, slamming his fist into a wall. "Fuck!" he added cradling his hand against his chest. He'd obviously broken the bones. Boxer's fracture. Luckily they were still in the hospital.

There was another shock, John biting down on whatever had been put into his mouth, his pants becoming darker as he lost control of his bladder.

_He looks so small,_ Sherlock thought as the images on the screen disappeared. There hadn't been much more to learn. John wasn't speaking in the video, and the woman was only visible long enough to be seen placing the electrodes across John's oddly shaved head.

She'd winked at the camera and then disappeared from view.

"Why would she do that to him?" Lestrade asked. "What does she get out of it? If she really just wanted to hurt you she'd have killed him, like with…"

_Molly, _Sherlock finished the sentence in his head. He could hear the anger and the fear in Lestrade's voice. The D.I. was keeping it together, but barely. And as he glanced up even his brother, Mycroft who was fazed by nothing, had taken on a slight greenish hue.

"To make him forget," Sherlock added, his voice revealing none of the panic that was trying to take control. "The placement, the strength. It's used to control or even erase memories. She did this so he wouldn't remember, wouldn't be able to tell us anything. He probably doesn't even know who he is."

Lestrade looked horror struck, shifting his position without jostling his injured hand. Mycroft opened his mouth, was about to expand on Sherlock's observation.

"_Did you make it to the end, Sherlock?" _ They all turned back to the screen just as it blinked to life again. She was sitting there, face huge on the screen, nothing else visible. She smiled at them, nothing reaching her bright green eyes.

"It was fun and John was such a good boy. I can see why you liked having him around. Shame really that it will never be the same."

Her face disappeared again, replaced with a grainy black and white image. The unmistakable image of a man stumbling out of a warehouse at night. The unmistakable image of John.


	12. Chapter 12

"How is she?"

"Been asleep since you dropped her off."

"Hmm. The doctors said she might sleep for several hours, between the sedative and what she's been through."

"Sleep is the best thing. My gran always said that. Tea? Coffee?"

"Coffee, God, yes please. Black. I haven't been home in days. And that stuff at the hospital is horrible."

The quiet that followed caused Harry to open her eyes. She stared at the wall and wondered if time had passed or if she had dreamt the entire conversation. But the quiet clink of china told her that there was more than one person in the kitchen. She recognized the voices: Mrs. Hudson and Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"The newest video is being analyzed," Lestrade said. "No one thinks we'll learn anything else, but Sherlock's watching it over and over again. He'll probably determine where in Ireland she's from."

"Hopefully that will lead us to John," Mrs. Hudson replied. There was another pause, Harry pushed herself up, leaning her head against the back of the sofa. There was a pounding behind her eyes and she felt groggy.

"Poor Molly," Mrs. Hudson said quietly, and the images came flooding back. They felt different though, far away. Almost like something Harry had seen in a movie. She was sure she if she called her sponsor or her old therapist they'd be able to explain it to her. They'd know the terminology. It didn't matter though. She'd seen someone shot dead right in front of her and she wanted a drink more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life.

"I can't believe he can watch it again. I couldn't hold my dinner in after watching the last one. "

"At least he isn't sitting upstairs watching it over and over. I don't like that it's still up there, under my roof."

The videos. Harry thought of Lestrade explaining it to her the first time – he hadn't revealed a single detail, but she'd seen it on his face. John had suffered.

At least Molly Hooper hadn't suffered.

She'd been alive one second. Dead the next. Here. Gone. All in the span of a breath.

Harry pushed the blanket off her lap and slowly stood up. She leaned forward, pressing her fingertips into the table to stop the spinning. When she felt stable she headed towards the door. She had to see it. She had to see what they had seen.

She had to see John.

She was careful with the door. They'd stop her if they heard her leaving. She pulled it quietly behind her, the faint sound of traffic outside following her up the stairs.

The curtains were closed, and the room was oddly dark despite the bright day. She found it comforting. It was offensive that the sun had decided to shine.

The remote control was on the floor next to the chair. It had been moved close to the television, probably when Sherlock had been watching the video continuously. Harry ran her fingers over the upholstery as she leaned down to pick up the remote. She couldn't sit in the chair, so she settled on the floor crossing her legs and turning the power on and hitting play.

As the woman walked onto the screen, the remote crashed to the ground.

"Siobhan," Harry whispered. "_Siobhan_," she said louder, moving to her knees and grabbing either side of the television screen.

"_No!_" she said screamed, shaking the screen as the image when black. She pulled it towards her, letting it fall to the floor. There was a crack as the screen split, and Harry pounded her palm against it.

"Where is he?" she shouted, unaware as she cut herself on the broken plastic. She slapped the screen again, leaving a bloody palm print.

"WHERE IS HE?" she screamed as the door flew open and Mrs. Hudson called her name.

"Siobhan," Harry said, her voice now barely discernible through the tears. "Siobhan," she repeated. "Siobhan has John. _Where is he?_" she shrieked at the broken television as Lestrade wrapped his arms around her and picked her up.

* * *

"Sherlock," Mycroft said from the car, and the detective ignored him. He showed the picture to a woman he only knew as Sandy. She seemed less than inclined to help. The time away had deteriorated many of his relationships, and he'd spent almost an hour working to gain her trust again. An excess of time was something that he didn't have. He had to find John – and if John was on the street, someone had seen him.

"I need to find him. Quickly. Here's a hundred pounds, I'll get you a hundred more if you can get the word out to locate him. And," he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and handed them to her. She snatched them and the money, and filed them away among her many layers.

"His name is John, but he might not know that. His hair will be patchy, like it was shaved only in certain areas."

"That's stupid," Sandy said but finally accept the picture.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said again, louder. Sherlock continued to ignore him, but Sandy eyed his brother over his shoulder. Mycroft was hardly the ideal companion for this, but he had a car and had refused to leave Sherlock alone. Sherlock had at least convinced him to stay out of the negotiations.

"He has nothing to do with this," Sherlock reassured. "You can contact me in the same way you used to. I'll have the money."

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, moving to stand next to the bench. "Harry knows _her_."

Sherlock was in the process of pointing to the image of John again when Mycroft's words stopped him cold. He turned and met his brother's gaze. Mycroft's mobile was pressed to his ear, but he was obviously only paying attention to Sherlock.

Harry knew her. _Her_.

Sherlock pushed the rest of the money into Sandy's hand. "Let me know," he said over his shoulder, even though he was fairly certain that he would no longer find John on the street. It was the wrong direction, the one she'd deliberately pushed him towards. Deliberately misleading him while dropping bread crumbs in another direction. Clues. Clues he hadn't picked up on. His mind had deteriorated. He'd lost his edge.

_Idiot,_ he thought as he moved past Mycroft and back towards the car.

"Tell Lestrade we're on our way back to Baker Street."


	13. Chapter 13

A/N - As always, my gratitude to ScopesMonkey.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson opened the door, and the tension from the room seemed to spill into the corridor, roiling around him. Three faces were staring at him – two looked as distressed Lestrade felt, but Mycroft Holmes looked as though the whole situation was starting to annoy him.

"Can you please explain to Mrs. Hudson the importance of interviewing someone as quickly as possible, regardless of whether or not they need a nap?" Sherlock demanded, jabbing a finger at his landlady. Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes, obviously tired of the argument.

"She fell asleep again?" Lestrade asked, surprised. Harry had been a wreck when he'd left, but he hadn't had the luxury of staying with her. With the hospital still on lock down he was without a lot of good people, and with the name of the pub, he'd had no time to waste. He'd felt horrible leaving Mrs. Hudson to pick up the pieces, but she'd seemed to understand.

"I gave her a pill," Mrs. Hudson answered, moving out of the way so he could enter the flat.

"A questionable decision given Ms. Watson's history." Mycroft's comment went ignored by the room, but it hardly seemed relevant. No one could blame Harry if she fell off the wagon. Given the circumstance he was seriously considering taking up smoking again himself – anything to cope with this mess.

"I went to the pub," he said, pulling a DVD out of his pocket. "No," he said as Mrs. Hudson gasped, taking a step back. "It's just the security footage. One of the owners used to work for the Met and had a funny feeling about her, so he kept the footage. Thought she might clean out the till one night or something."

Sherlock snorted but said no more as he reached for the DVD.

"Why didn't he just call the police?" Mycroft asked.

Lestrade shrugged.

"She didn't actually do anything illegal, or at least illegal that they knew of. She just worked two days and didn't show up for her next shift. Noting unusual apparently. " He pulled the paper out of his other coat pocket and held it up. The words were burned into his memory – and would be until they found her.

"Said her name was Siobhan _Moriarty." _An odd calm settled over the room, gazes directed at him. "Gave two references. A 'friend' in Belfast, also named Moriarty – James Moriarty – and one Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street. Her address is fake. The phone number a disposable mobile that's since been disconnected. The company is currently finding out which store sold the phone, so hopefully we'll have something else."

"Doubtful," Sherlock said. "She's too intelligent."

Lestrade just nodded, not wanting to actually agree with Sherlock, but knowing he was right. Sherlock reached for the papers and Lestrade let him take them. There was nothing else to learn from them that he could see. She'd even written in that awkward block letters that would make it nearly impossible to do a handwriting comparison. If there was anything else to find, Sherlock would do it.

They were all silent as Sherlock looked over the application. A couple of seconds and he let it drop to the floor. Nothing else to see apparently. Lestrade leaned over to pick it up just as the detective headed towards the stairs.

"I need to watch the security footage."

* * *

He'd kicked the broken pieces of the telly out of the way, deliberately ignoring the ones that had Harry's blood on them. He grabbed his laptop and settled in his chair, plastic cracking under his feet.

Sherlock put the disk in and focused immediately on the woman standing behind the bar. He checked the date – it was likely her first day, as she'd have no reason to return once she'd found Harry. He wondered vaguely what the name of the establishment was and where it was located. Obviously it had been chosen on purpose, but had Harry frequented this place before or was it just in close proximity to her home? How had Siobhan known Harry would pick this place?

He'd know the answer to that if he could simply speak to her. Sherlock glared at the closed door, momentarily considering just storming into Mrs. Hudson's flat, but thought better of it. If Harry had been drugged then it was pointless – even if he could wake her she'd be useless.

Siobhan was obviously familiar with the roll of publican. She served drinks with ease, greeting each new person who sat before her comfortably and warmly, and obviously handled the unwanted advances with no effort.

The quality was typical of security footage: no sound with the grainy black and white image. But it was clear enough for him to see, even if there was nothing _to_ see. Sherlock advanced the video, pausing at a random spot. He could let the fast-forward run slowly until Harry arrived and he wouldn't miss anything important.

Sherlock sat his laptop on the ottoman and brought his knees up to his chest. On screen, a larger man reached over the bar to grab Siobhan's ass. With lighting speed, she spun around and pinned the man's wrist to the bar. Skilled marksman, obviously trained in self-defense, obviously incredibly intelligent.

He was certain Mycroft would already have people digging diligently for anyone actually named Siobhan Moriarty. He had no doubt her name was Siobhan, but he suspected she wasn't actually a relative. Too easy, too close.

The connection was likely deeper, harder earned, and thicker than blood. And she obviously wasn't lacking for information. She knew where Jim had died, and no one else even knew he was dead.

She knew too much.

He closed his eyes, and instead of categorizing his thoughts he set them free, just for a moment. The technique had proven useful on more than one occasion. Throw all the pieces on the floor, mix them up and see what he had. John walking into Bart's with Mike. John forcing himself up the stairs at Baker Street, the cane carrying a portion of his weight.

Sherlock dismissed those. Irrelevant. Sentiment.

Cornwall. He focused on Cornwall and the pictures he'd seen from the scene there. The house thoroughly cleaned. The pub where they'd been, providing no answers. John had gone there to escape London, Baker Street, his memories from Bart's.

The image of John walking into the lab with Mike again.

Sherlock shook his head, pushing the thought away, only to have the one of John at Baker Street return.

Bart's.

Baker Street.

Bart's. Baker Street. Cornwall.

He frowned as the pieces began to coalesce in his mind. Sherlock glanced at the screen, and into the Siobhan's bright eyes. She smiled at the camera, Harry visible on the screen behind her. He'd stopped paying attention and missed Harry's entrance. Siobhan winked at the camera, and reached toward the camera, as if she were going to take it down.

Bart's. Baker Street. Cornwall.

Cornwall. Baker Street. Bart's.

The discs. One of them was lying on the floor, lost in Harry's early rampage. The first one in Cornwall. The second one at Baker Street. The third one at Bart's. He'd met John at Bart's. Had brought him to Baker Street. Had driven him to Cornwall.

The three places, over and over.

On the screen Siobhan opened her hand, the drawing visible to him a fraction of a second after the shape had appeared in his head.

A circle. A dark circle on her palm on the screen.

A clue, an actual clue and not a misdirection. He could see the pleasure on her face as she backed away from the screen. Sherlock leaned forward, his chest pressing against his legs as he struggled to take a breath.

The beginning. They were back at the beginning and he'd missed it.

"LESTRADE!" Sherlock bellowed, vaulting from his chair and racing to the door.


	14. Chapter 14

"Give–"

"Sherlock, let–"

"GIVE–"

"Shut up!" Lestrade snapped, slapping Sherlock's hand away from the phone. The detective sat back, perched on the edge of his seat. Lestrade pulled the phone away from his ear and tapped the speaker button.

"It's a patient room," Donovan said. "Two elderly male patients. No connection."

"Patient B," Sherlock snarled. "Which one is in bed B?"

"A dementia patient," Donovan said. "He hasn't woken up since we've been in here. They're going to relocate both of them in case there's something in the room, but so far, there's nothing obvious."

"There has to be," Sherlock said, sticking his head between the seats. "Is there another 221, a broom closet, an office–"

"I did think of that," Donovan snapped. "It's the only one. We even searched rooms with the numbers in a different order."

"You're missing it," Sherlock said, a long arm reaching in front of Lestrade to hit the horn.

"The light is red!" Lestrade said, looking at Mycroft for support. Sherlock's brother looked out of place, sitting uncomfortably in the compact car, working diligently on his own mobile.

"I have a second team combing the roof, maybe the first one missed–"

"Not even Anderson is that idiotic," Sherlock interrupted. Lestrade glanced in the mirror; the detective looked suddenly pensive as he sat back in his seat.

"Baker," Mycroft said suddenly, reaching behind him to hand his mobile to Sherlock. "There's a doctor on staff named Lawrence Baker," he directed his voice at Donovan. "He must have an office, or a desk, or a locker. Find that and I suspect that you will find what we're looking for."

Donovan's voice was suddenly distant as she held the phone away to speak to someone else. The car was oddly quiet as the traffic started to move, the three of them focused solely on the phone held in Lestrade's palm.

"An office," Donovan said. "We're going down there. They're getting us a key. Apparently, Dr. Baker is on holiday."

* * *

Lestrade drove up on the pavement, and Sherlock was out of the car before it stopped moving. He knew Bart's well, and the simple description Donovan had given let him directed him where he needed to go. He maneuvered through the people easily, climbed the stairs and turned left to spot a small group of people gathered in the hall. Including Donovan, looking shocked.

John. She'd found John. Sherlock gulped in a breath and held it as he ran towards her. Towards John.

Her face grew serious when she spotted him, and she held up a hand. "Wait," she said positioning herself between the door and him. "They're look–"

Sherlock grabbed her arm, pushing her to the side.

"Sherlock!" she called after him, and he noted that she used his name – his actual name – but he pushed past a nurse and into the doorway when he heard the familiar voice.

"A Mister Holmes is coming to get me."

"It's okay," a female voice said.

"JOHN!" he shouted, pushing someone else aside. "John," he repeated, a euphoric feeling of relief settling in his chest.

The doctor turned, eyes locking with Sherlock's, fear shining in them instead of recognition. It stopped him dead in his tracks.

"John…" The named trailed off his lips as blue eyes looked at him frantically before turning back to the woman kneeling in front of him.

A hand on his forearm drew his attention, and he glanced at Donovan standing next to him and offering John a kind smile.

"He doesn't remember," she said quietly. She turned as Mycroft and Lestrade entered the room. "Doesn't know his name or anything." A tug on Sherlock's arm made him follow even as he kept his eyes locked on John, noting the patchy hair the bruises around his face, the emaciated look. His clothes were torn, battered. He'd been on the street, hadn't been cleaned up before he was brought here.

Donovan pushed him back into the hall as another doctor and two nurses moved into the room carrying supplies. Sherlock watched them – watched John turn away and focus on the people in front of him.

"When we entered the room he looked terrified, but asked if the security guard was 'Mister Holmes'. Says she told him he couldn't leave the room until Mister Holmes came."

"She?" Lestrade asked hopefully, but Donovan was shaking her head.

"He didn't seem to know much about her. Just that she'd picked him up from a park, gave him a sandwich and coffee and brought him here. We have them pulling the security footage, but there are some holes from when we were pulling the tapes earlier."

"She'd have known that," Sherlock said, standing on his toes to see over the sea of people between him and John. They were asking questions and Sherlock couldn't hear the answers, but John sounded confused, an anxious tone entering his voice. Sherlock wanted to go to him, wanted to tell him that he was back from the dead, and that nobody would ever hurt him again.

He wanted to protect him.

"She couldn't have known," Lestrade started.

"She did," Sherlock said. She was too good not to know. She'd planned everything.

He needed to know her next move.

"There's something here or she told him."

Whatever it was, Sherlock had no doubt to its importance, but for the first time the case felt secondary to the victim. To John.

He kept his eyes on the movements in the room, suddenly aware of Mycroft moving past him positioning himself among the caregivers.

"I'm Mister Holmes," Mycroft said quieting the room and drawing John's attention. "I want you to go with these doctors, let them treat you. You'll be fine."

There was a pause, a tension-filled moment, before a quiet voice broke the silence.

"Okay," John said, pushing himself to standing.

The doctors and nurses backed up, clearing a place for him to walk.

"There's an exam room down the hall here," the first female doctor said, touching John's shoulder.

The reaction was instantaneous. He jolted away from her, slamming his body into the wall in the process. Audible gasps filled the room, along with quiet murmurs of shock.

"No!" he cried out, sinking to the floor and cowering way from her.

Sherlock took a step towards him, but Lestrade blocked his path.

"Let them work," Lestrade said, puffing his chest out, pretending to be more confident than he was. Sherlock saw the fear there, too. The concern on Mycroft's face as he grabbed Sherlock's arm.

"There's an expert based in Geneva," Mycroft whispered. "Arrangements are already in place and he'll be here in four hours." Sherlock nodded, only mildly surprised that Mycroft already had a plan in place. "We'll wait here. If he needs to be removed we'll take him, but let them try here first."

Sherlock nodded, letting his brother pull him away as one of the male nurses knelt next to John.

"Come on," Mycroft said. "We need to notify Mrs. Hudson, and she rather hear it from you."

* * *

There was nothing, a random passing of thoughts, images, and feelings. He wondered if this was how a normal brain worked. Undisciplined and unharnessed. It was frustrating, but he was unable to focus. Thoughts of John and what he'd gone through consumed him.

Donovan had left with instructions from Lestrade concerning the security footage. Mycroft had stepped out for several minutes, only to return and take a seat across the room, quietly working on his mobile. And Lestrade sat across from him, elbows on knees waiting.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Mrs. Hudson had decided to stay with Harry, not wanting to wake her until they knew for certain what his condition was.

Logical. Compassionate.

He didn't understand how anyone could think of anything other than John.

"Excuse me," said a female voice. Sherlock looked up at the doctor, the one who'd helped and upset John. She looked tired, stress pulling on her eyes and lips. Neither indications that she was going to deliver good news.

She sighed, meeting each of their eyes as the stood anxious to hear what she would say.

"Physically he appears fine. The hair on his head is growing back. He had burn marks on his inner thigh and groin, but they're healing well and don't appear to be bothersome. He's a little malnourished and mildly dehydrated, but is eating normally and we're giving him IV fluids." She paused, taking in a deep breath.

"The rest though, I'm not sure. He doesn't remember anything, or can't put the memories together with people and places. He's functioning, able to dress himself, eat, and speak. But he doesn't know his name, or his family or friends. He's accepted that he's John Watson, and remembers that. So he seems able to create new memories, which is good. But he doesn't remember anything he's been through. I'm going to let you see him. One at a time, but don't mention anything that happened. Keep it simple, conversational. He's in a rather unbelievably content mood to have suffered as much trauma has he has."

"And what happened before," Lestrade started, "when he was… upset."

The doctor nodded, clasping her hands in front of her and Sherlock found he didn't care about the details. He just wanted to see John, confirm all of her information for himself.

"He's calmer now, actually apologized for reacting that way. He's hesitant with woman, for obvious reasons, even if he can't remember why. He's better with men, more comfortable. Just be deliberate in your actions, make sure he can see what you are doing."

"Thank you," Lestrade said, turning his attention to Sherlock.

He took a step towards the door, prepared to move past the doctor.

"Oh," she said, making him pause. "This was in his pocket." She pulled a plastic bag out of her lab coat, a piece of paper unfolded inside. "It's addressed to Sherlock. He says 'she' gave it to him to deliver."

Sherlock held out his hand, Mycroft and Lestrade watching him as he quickly read over the blood red words. He found that they didn't matter, were irrelevant now that John was safe. He shrugged his shoulders and handed the bag to Lestrade. The lab would get nothing from the note. She was too smart to leave a clue now.

"Take me to John," he said to the doctor.

* * *

_Wasn't that fun? Until next time. Siobhan._


	15. Epilogue

"The case sounds promising," John said, reading over the email Sherlock had received.

The detective shook his head, turning his attention back to the collection of acids in front of him.

"Dull," he said, despite the fact that a black market organ transplant ring was anything but dull.

John sighed, setting the laptop aside and putting tea bags into their mugs.

"You can't avoid potentially dangerous cases forever," John said.

"I'm not avoiding it because it's dangerous," Sherlock lied, not looking at him.

"You are," John said, putting Sherlock's mug in front of him. "And I appreciate that, but you're– _we're_ going to have to get back to normal. Or whatever was normal for us before."

"You don't _remember_ what normal for us was," Sherlock muttered under his breath, using a dropper to move more the acid into the petri dish.

John sighed and sat down across the table. "I know," he said, with none of the regret that had been there during the early days of his recovery. "But I also know what you've told me. And Lestrade. And Harry. And I know that you're bored. I hate for you to be inactive because of me. There are people you could be helping, and I'm stopping you. "

"Please don't make my career choice sound more altruistic than it is. I enjoy it. I don't do things out of the kindness of my heart."

"You've helped with my recovery," John replied simply.

He had – dutifully and without complaint. "That's different."

A quiet huff, and Sherlock looked up to see a smile on his friend's face. It had been a hard road, but bits and pieces had returned to him. Whether from actual memories or because Sherlock and others had been meticulous in sharing details was irrelevant. One of the therapists had explained that memories were very easily manipulated, and that by sharing them, they'd help recreate John's.

"Think about it," John said after a moment. "If not this one the next one. I'm ready to move on, start doing things again. I don't want to be _her _prisoner anymore."

Sherlock paused, swallowing past the panic that swelled in his throat. John was unaware of it, having no more memory of Siobhan than what he'd been told. And he hadn't been told much. John picked up his tea and took a sip. Sherlock took another deep breath and pushed his discomfort away.

"I doubt your sister will be pleased when I start dragging you across London's rooftops."

John shrugged. "I'm not pleased that she feels I should live with her and report all of my activities to her."

"She's just concerned," Sherlock replied, surprising even himself with his almost constant defense of Harry. They had been allies through John's recovery, fighting together to ensure that he received the best care possible.

"I know. But it's annoying."

He sipped his tea, and Sherlock watched him. He looked simultaneously younger and older than he had. A lifetime of burdens forgotten, replaced with the struggle to remember them. He had nightmares unlike any he'd had before, but they were vague, and undefined, known only because John's caretakers has shared bits and pieces.

Sherlock had refused to lie, even in the beginning. He'd lied to John once, the biggest lie of his life, and he had no intention of repeating it. If John asked, he answered. Perhaps he kept it simple, left out the more gruesome details, but he answered. John knew what had happened to him, knew why he was chosen, and why he'd been punished. He knew that it was all Sherlock's fault. But without the memories to put it in context he had none of the anger that he should. They were simply stories, images that he couldn't quite reconcile with himself.

It was both a blessing and a curse. And Sherlock couldn't quite escape the sensation that _she_ was out there, and that she was watching. But he also felt – almost knew – that she wouldn't come back unless she was provoked.

She'd had her revenge.

"Tomorrow we can go to Scotland Yard and pick up the old case files Lestrade has been harping on. We can work on those, ensure you still like this line of work."

John nodded, his face lighting up. "Good," he said. "I like Lestrade."

* * *

A/N - Thanks to everyone who stuck with this one. And to Scopes, the world's best cheerleader!


End file.
